Personal Narrative

I arrived at practice with my shoes laced, hair pulled back, and the mindset that I was unstoppable. I could play against every member of my team and come out the victor on any given day. It was the first day of practice that week, and challenge matches were scheduled to begin. The team went through our daily shuffle of drills, conditioning, and running to prepare for what was lying ahead. While warming up with my friends, I felt great, talking about homecoming, boys, and a variety of irrelevant events. I felt ready. The odds were in my favor and nobody could stop me.

I think about it for a moment. "Thanks for the offer babe, but I'd rather fly this one solo" I reply to him.

It was one of those oddities; though identical twins, they had celebrated different birthdays: first, Molly, born on April 1, 1972, at 11:47 PM, and second came Megan on April 2 at 12:17 AM. Their parents, Meryl and Bill, thought it best that the twins celebrate on their own days and had always held separate parties for them. Bill adored “his girls,” and Megan was probably his favorite. A parent shouldn’t have a favorite child, yet, they all, more than likely do. It’s either the one that they’ve carried some sort of guilt about, for one reason or another, or the one that highly reminds them of themselves. In Bill’s case, it was definitely Megan, he enjoyed her spunk (a quality he thought missing from the other two children). It was his attraction to her high-spiritedness that had Meryl, on countless occasions telling him; “You are letting her get away with

‘’I was on my way to back to school night I was extremely nervous to meet my teacher and when I got there I heard Andrew then I turned around and…’’ One time when I was in second grade I was on my way to back to school night I went to meet my teacher her name was Ms. Pepler. She was nice at helping me put my stuff in my desk but I thought she would be meaner in the school year so when me and my mom got back in the car I said ‘’I think Ms. pepler is going to be mean this year.’’ My mom said ‘’ she seemed really nice at back to school night’’ then I said maybe you're right.’’ Now it is the first day of school and I was nervous because I thought I had a mean teacher and I didn't have any friends it was just me and my cousin. The first day of

My entire life I have always been the smallest person in the room. In elementary school, I was a four-foot-nothing, fifty-pound, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pretty little wisp of a thing. My best friend, Michelle, was, in contrast, was a year older and nearly two heads taller than me, and outweighed me by at least once my own body weight. She also loved to wrestle and would take any opportunity to smash me in a wrestling match. These matches were friendly (if only in the sense that after they were over we would both stand up and go back to adoring each other) but nonetheless highly competitive. Looking back on it, she probably should have been able to kill me, but, try as she might, she never could - she didn’t even win more than half the time.

Sunshine. Endless amounts of fun. Water. It was about that time again, summer! My favorite season, no school and my birthday was in it. This summer was especially great, my dad was coming home he was in the military and I hadn't seen him in eight months. It was about a regular summer day with my family, when my parents thought of heading down to the beach. I was thrilled this beach was one of my favorite places to go in the summer. It was not only just a beach but, it also had a large park with big blue swings, a tennis court, and large grass area for people to have picnics. And were the beach and the park split of there were tall ginormous rocks so people could watch the boats and ocean. I was so excited and on top of that my mom told me that

I slowly sit up and rest my back against the headboard of my old bed. Closing my eyes and taking everything in that has happen since I’ve woken up. Being in my old room, brings back a lot of memories of when I used to live here as a child. Moments with James, moments with my mum. I let a tear escape my eye, quickly wiping it away. I can’t let it get to me anymore. It was five years ago. A few more tears escape and I go to whip it away again when light bounces off the scars on my arm.

The sand is cold, the sky overcast, and the waves crash against the shore echoing harshly through my ears. I see clouds rolling overhead, I can smell the salt of the ocean, feel the texture of the sand, taste the electricity on the air and it all points to the coming storm. Is it real? Can anything be real when seen through someone else's eyes, felt through someone else's skin, tasted through someone else's tongue, Breathed through someone else's nose, heard through someone else's ears? This is what the world looked like to her, felt like to her, but what did it look like to me, feel to me? Was there ever a me or only this continually changing sculpture, patterns of a person and nothing more. I shivered as the cold air caressed the flesh I wore.

I woke up as usual a couple of years ago on September 20, I rubbed my tired eyes with my hands curled into fists. Uncovering my head from the large blanket I had, I was blinded by the brilliant light that hung above my head. A few moments later, after my eyes had adjusted, and my temporary blindness left me, I stumbled out of my bed and tripped to my closet, still dazed from just having woken up. Once I was ready I dazedly walked down the stairs, hanging onto the wooden rail tightly so I wouldn’t fall, though I almost fell more than a few times. My grandmother was sitting in her grey rocking chair, watching The walking dead, she heard me trip off the last step coming down the stairs and turned her head slightly to face me. She started to say

I grew up as a creative, very imaginative person. My imagination was always going, 24/7, going like Lebron in the paint, it couldn’t be stopped. I would stay up some nights imagining myself as a cop, a football player, basketball player, astronaut, truck driver, you name it. I imagined myself being anything I wanted to be. But how I got to be so imaginative is because of something I didn’t think until I began to write this essay. I was raised in a small town call Crossett, Arkansas, above the border of Louisiana. This town is a town in which I call a “chill town.” Everybody knows each other, and when pass by in your cars you can wave and give a bright smile and they’ll do the same back. Usually on a weekend you can find mostly everyday in their

School was letting out for summer and there was pure excitement in the air, or at least that’s what I thought. I was 15 years old and I had a huge summer in store since I got my first car and I could drive anywhere I wanted. I always had a great relationship with my grandfather ‘Pop’ and since he lived in town we did a lot of stuff together. He was 79 years old, but you couldn’t tell it because of his energy and health. I knew ‘Pop’ had been sick but I never thought twice about it, because he had always been really healthy. Being the young stupid kid I was I never went to check on him because it was summer and I would hate to miss out on something with my friends. That was my immature mindset, which made me feel very lonely for the majority

Well, I can’t say that I am not scared. I mean…I am kind of standing beside my shed looking for someone. Let’s see, what can I do to get this off my mind for a few minutes? I am not really thinking straight right now, but I will keep thinking. Suddenly I hear a twig snap, and just like any “ brave” boy would, I go and investigate. I turn my flashlight on to get a better view of the tree rubble. I don’t see anything so I turn to leave and come face to face with a masked man. Out of nowhere he pushes me to the ground and sprints off. When I look around, I see that the ground is littered with broken glass, but I think nothing of it. For some reason when I stand up I feel a whole lot shorter and surprisingly itchy. I do one quick glance

Opening the link, I was hit with instant nostalgia, memories of my grandfather calling me to the living room, rambling about a man with no limbs. I remember sitting there with him, smiling as a result of my grandfather being passionate about Nick and his seminars, tuning in time to time, listening to the voice over translation in spanish. At the time, I didn't fully understand what my grandfather meant when he said he was an inspiration and how he gives hope to others, as I was a relatively cheerful (snobby for the lack of a better word) pre-teen. I went along with it, hoping to somehow get out of watching this man as it was translated in Spanish and it took quite the effort for me to piece the words and sentences together.

“You can have it if you want,” my father said, pointing to the Playboy magazine on his desk. His index finger interrupted my line of vision, and my eyes shot up to make contact with his.

You can never judge a book by it's cover, sometimes that book may be pretty on the outside but it could be broken on the inside like a mirror that was dropped with pieces that could not be put back together. I come from a family where we were once a “Family” but we let differences brake us. At this point in my life I was eleven years old learning to be independent,learning how to handle school on my own, not letting others define me as a person or who i was going to become. Again I was only eleven, a lot of eleven year olds i know today didn't do the things I did as a kid. Now there was a time in my life where i played with barbies and had a favorite blanket that i could not let go of. Every family goes through things there is no such thing as perfect.